An Alibi A Day

by A. R. Winters

  “Ow!” Jackie rubbed her shoulder with her other hand.

  Dan was scurrying across the pub. He couldn’t go out the front, but it looked like he was planning to go out the back.

  He went down the line of barstools to the end of the bar, and then went around to the serving side.

  “Oi! Oh no you don’t!”

  Faster than Allie imagined possible, the chubby bartender lunged for Dan, who was making for the door behind the counter which led to the stockroom and a fire exit beyond.

  Dan made it through the first door, but as he was doing so the barman had already grabbed his mop. He lunged forward with it, and the next thing Allie heard was the sound of a heavy body tripping and falling to the floor. And swearing. Copious amounts of swearing.

  Eddie hurried ahead of Allie along with Jackie.

  “Take that!” said Jackie, and Allie could hear the sound of palm meeting flesh. “And that, and that.”

  Five minutes later, a very annoyed Dan was sitting back on the same barstool as earlier, though now both his wrists and ankles had been bound with cable ties provided by the very obliging pub landlord, who, Allie had learned, was called Roger.

  “Why Dan? Why?” asked Ruth, shaking her head. She picked up her drink and took a sip with the straw. “Why?”

  “For you! It was all for you!” said Dan.

  “What do you mean for me?”

  “Larry found out about us. He was going to write you out of his will. I couldn’t let him do that to you. You deserved it, Ruth. After putting up with that old fool for so long, you’d earned your half of the inheritance.”

  Ruth put down her drink and then proceeded to slap Dan across the face with a loud smack. Allie winced.

  “You’re a fool! How could you have thought you’d get away with it?”

  Dan shrugged. “The police around here are useless.”

  “Hey!” said Eddie. “I caught you, didn’t I?”

  Dan shook his head. “No. It was those two London cows.”

  Eddie frowned but didn’t push the point.

  “And you burned down your own house?” said Charlie with disbelief. “I was wondering why you didn’t rush out the second I told you it was on fire.”

  Again, Dan shrugged. “It’s only a house.”

  “Umm, we were in it,” said Jackie, lifting up her hand as if readying to slap him again. Allie gently took her sister’s hand and pulled it back to her side. There’d been enough slapping for now, she thought. The on-duty police would be there soon to metaphorically slap him with the law.

  “Only a house and a couple of cows,” said Dan with a smirk.

  Allie may have stopped Jackie, but she couldn’t stop Ruth as well, who proceeded to slap Dan again. He blinked, and then to Allie’s astonishment, tears began to roll down his cheeks.

  “Ruth! It was for you. It was all for you. I… I love you.”

  “Oh, pull the other one. Save it for the judge.” Ruth gave him a contemptuous glare, slid off her stool, and headed off towards the toilets.

  Outside they heard sirens, rapidly followed by the screeching of tires.

  “Sounds like my colleagues are here,” said Eddie. “Time’s up, Dan.”

  It was with satisfaction and relief that Allie and Jackie watched as Dan was dragged out of the pub by two strapping uniformed officers to the police van outside.

  “Come on,” said Allie. “I’m gasping. Let’s go to Bree’s for a brew.”

  Eddie placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Sorry ladies,” he said with a shake of his head. “You’re going to have to go down to the station to give statements.”

  “Again?”

  Chapter 33

  Six weeks later, Allie and Jackie were sitting in Bree’s Café, having just arrived back from London.

  Michelle was sitting with them, a big ring-binder in front of her.

  “Are you sure you understood all of that?” she asked with a worried frown.

  Allie gave her a reassuring nod. “We sure did. And we’ve got your number if there’s anything else.”

  “But remember, you may not always be able to get a hold of me…”

  Allie nodded. She knew that.

  Michelle was going on a cruise with John Skye MP. They’d finally moved in together, and Michelle seemed completely enamoured with him, and from what they had heard, he was the same about her.

  Michelle was clearly worried that Allie and Jackie would need to call her while she was out at sea, but Allie wasn’t concerned. She’d handle whatever needed to be handled; after all, if they could solve a murder, surely they could run a little B&B?

  Larry Junior had sold them the property as soon as he held the deed, and once they had handed over the funds, he had immediately begun to invest his newfound wealth into horse races, whisky and beer. Still, whatever makes him happy, thought Allie.

  “I’ll get on then. I’m sad to see it go… but I know it’ll be in good hands. You’ll at least keep the place clean!” Michelle stood up to leave.

  “That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” said Jackie, giving Allie a friendly poke in the shoulder. Allie wasn’t sure why she was worried though. You couldn’t exactly keep a B&B too clean, could you?

  “Bye then, and good luck.”

  Allie and Jackie stood up to say goodbye to her. They didn’t know when they’d see her again.

  When Michelle had left, they were left alone, just the two of them. It was a quiet morning in the café and there were no other customers present. Bree was off in the back, preparing for the lunch rush.

  “Do you think we’ll ever find out how or why we got the money?” asked Allie.

  “I can’t see how we would.”

  Allie tilted her head thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. It’d be nice to know though.”

  “Maybe we can ask around a bit later,” Jackie said reluctantly. “I know you won’t stop till you find out.”

  Allie nodded. “If it’s all a mistake, we need to figure it out quickly. And if it’s not a mistake, I need to know why I got the money.”

  “Do you think we can do this? Like really do this? Properly?” Jackie was poking at the folder Michelle had left with them. Inside, was her secret sauce for running the B&B: all of her notes, instructions, reminders, daily and weekly to-do lists, and contact deals for various suppliers and tradesmen.

  “There’s no choice now, is there?” said Allie.

  “No… I don’t suppose there is.”

  “First things first, we’ll make a contract with Bree to handle the breakfasts. Then…”

  The two now ex-Londoners sat for hours, happily plotting and planning just how they could run the very best B&B in all of the Cotswolds…

  With hopefully no more murders to interrupt them.

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  Sneak Peak: Innocent in Las Vegas

  Chapter 1

  Despite the bags under her eyes and the ankle monitor, Sophia Becker looked gorgeous.

  “Tiffany!” She flashed a phony smile and embraced me in a warm hug. Her voice contained trace amounts of anxiety and relief, and her blue eyes couldn’t disguise her stress. “I’m so glad you came!”

  I shrugged nonchalantly. I didn’t want her to get her hopes up, or to think our relationship had changed. “I was told it wouldn’t hurt to listen.”

  “Well, thank you for coming.”

  I walked into the mansion behind her, my low-heeled sandals making a clicking noise against the white marble floor. Her place smelled expensive, like a Vanilla-Bergamot scented candle, and was so clean and tidy
that I wondered just how many staff she employed.

  When we reached the far side of the living room, Sophia slid gracefully into a wooden chair, and crossed her long, tan legs. She was wearing a short black miniskirt and a designer tank top, and her ankle monitor flashed silently. “Did Richard fill you in?”

  I shook my head no. “He told me you were looking for a PI, but I didn’t get any details.” I perched gingerly on an antique armchair worth more than my entire month’s salary. In my casual Bermuda shorts and t-shirt, I felt a little out of place in this glamorous room. “But I don’t really see what a PI can do for you at this stage.”

  Sophia flipped her long blond hair from one side of her face to the other, and her elegant diamond drop earrings shimmered in the light. She gave me a pained look. “I’m innocent. Don’t you believe that?”

  “That’s what they all say. And even if you are, it’s hard to argue against the evidence.”

  “It was planted.”

  I sighed. “Sophia, they found the gun in your nightstand. Literally. A. Smoking. Gun.”

  She stared at me for a second through narrowed eyes, and then she leaned back in her chair and relaxed. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t even have to think about that one. Sophia was anything but stupid.

  She was beautiful, friendly and witty—and she’d put those qualities to good use by becoming a stripper. She was also ruthless and ambitious, and that was probably how she managed to make Ethan Becker, owner of the Riverbelle Casino, fall in love with her.

  Thanks to Ethan’s wealth, Sophia’s stripping days had been put behind her as soon as they got engaged, and the wedding was exclusive and ostentatious. Judging from the massive rocks she wore, and the Lake Las Vegas mansion I was sitting in right now, Sophia’s marital life had been one great big fairy tale.

  Until three months ago, when her husband was murdered.

  “Then why,” she said, “does everyone think I’m dumb enough to wipe down a murder weapon and put it back in my nightstand?”

  “Maybe you didn’t think anyone would look?” Sophia looked at me cynically and I went on, “Someone would have to break in to plant the gun in your bedroom. You never reported a break-in.”

  “I couldn’t tell from the lock. There are good lockpicks, you know.”

  I looked at her doubtfully. “And what do you want me to do?”

  “Find out what the police overlooked.”

  “What makes you think they overlooked anything?”

  “Oh, please. The instant they found that gun, they stopped their entire investigation and acted like I’d admitted to killing Ethan. Meanwhile, the guy who murdered my husband is walking free.”

  I took a moment to reflect. Did I really think Sophia had killed Ethan? It was hard to tell—all through our high school years she’d been a good actress, manipulating people to get her way. She’d been the pretty, popular cheerleader who’d spread mean rumors behind your back and teased you about your weight, your hair and your unfashionable old clothes. I hadn’t been too fond of her back then, and I wasn’t sure what she was capable of now.

  As though she’d read my mind, Sophia said, “Why would I kill my husband? I had a great life, and I’d be stupid to risk all that.”

  “I don’t know. What if I find things that make you look even more guilty? You know I’ll have to tell the cops.”

  Sophia nodded. “Of course.”

  I thought about all the reasons I didn’t want to take on this case. “Why me? Why not someone else?”

  “It’s a great first case.”

  I loved the way she didn’t answer me directly. I wasn’t even fully accredited, and she wanted me to look into something so serious. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

  “Ed Hastings recommended you.”

  Ed was my supervising detective. He’d certified to the Nevada Board of Private Investigators that I wasn’t mentally unstable or criminally inclined, and once a month I did ten hours of supervised work for him—mostly boring surveillance jobs. My one year of supervised work was almost up, and I was grateful to Ed for the recommendation, even if I wasn’t too keen on working for Sophia.

  “Richard Small did a background check,” Sophia continued, “and then he contacted you.”

  I tried my best not to smirk. Richard might be a successful defense attorney, but I wondered how he’d gotten through high school with such an unfortunate name. He’d probably survived his name the same way I’d survived mine.

  My mother, in an uncharacteristic fit of inspiration, had named me Tiffany. Tiffany Black.

  My name might’ve seemed normal in a regular small town, but here in Vegas, Tiffany was a popular stage name for strippers. Which meant that almost every day of my short twenty-eight-year-old life I’d heard someone, usually a rat-eyed creep with bad breath, coo out a variation of the romantic phrase, “You’ve got a stripper name, do you really like poles?”

  Having a stripper name meant that I went out of my way not to look like a stripper. That involved having unruly, untamable brown hair; carrying a layer of cushioning fat around my waistline; and wearing more clothes than all the girls in Vegas combined.

  I said, “No one else will take the job, will they?”

  Sophia glanced away and I leaned back triumphantly. Of course she wouldn’t voluntarily want to employ a no-name, not-quite-accredited PI like myself if she had better options. She’d hired one of the best defense attorneys in the state, and she could afford any PI—if they’d just agree to work for her.

  “It’s really simple work—” she began, but I interrupted her.

  “No, it’s not, and you know it. No one messes with the casino owners.”

  “I am a casino owner,” she said. “At least I will be, if you can help me get off on these charges. Then you’ll have an easy time getting jobs.”

  “If. And that’s a big if.”

  We looked at each other silently. Jobs here were dependent on the casinos, and nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of the powerful few who controlled an entire state’s economy.

  “Please, Tiff.” Sophia looked at me with sad eyes. “I need you to help me out. I’m in a terrible place, and if you won’t help, I don’t know what to do.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears and I looked away. Crap. I felt like I was kicking a puppy. Despite whatever she’d done when we were younger, the woman was living a nightmare now, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  I glanced at my watch and stood up quickly. “I should go. I’m late.”

  Sophia sniffed. “Please, tell me you’ll consider this?”

  I looked at her carefully. She’d always been an expert manipulator and I hated the thought of being pushed into doing something I didn’t want to do. But her face was pinched, and I could almost smell the doom surrounding her.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “It could be a great opportunity for someone.” To shoot themselves in the foot.

  Sophia nodded, and showed me out silently.

  Chapter 2

  Vegas drivers are the worst in the world. Not me, of course. But everyone else.

  As I drove east along the Las Vegas Beltway, I had to stifle my urge to make rude hand gestures and lean on the horn. I hadn’t been lying about being late, and I was grateful Sophia hadn’t asked what I was late for. She probably already knew.

  I stopped at my apartment, a tiny one-bedroom place I’d managed to buy right after the market crashed, and changed. I could drive to work, but the best thing about my place is that it’s only a short walk to work.

  The Strip is a nightmare to drive down at night—all it takes is one mesmerized tourist staring at the lights to cause a pileup. The late-evening breeze made it cool enough to walk, even in the middle of the scorching summer, and I told myself I was getting some much-needed exercise.

  As soon as I entered the casino pit, the loudness hit me: all the colors, noises and lights that epitomized Sin City. Walking into the madness felt l
ike meeting an old friend—a boisterous old friend who annoys you at first, but grows on you.

  I tapped out the day-shift dealer, clapped my hands to show that they were empty, and smiled around the table. “Are you guys having a good time?”

  I genuinely cared about how the men felt. My tips depended upon it. Two of them smiled in a vague, noncommittal way, but one took my question seriously.

  “Stupid blackjack,” he said. “The other dealer was ripping me off. I hope you’re here to improve my bloody luck.”

  He looked at me suspiciously, as though I might have a secret nefarious motive for being there. I smiled and motioned to the waitress. “Looks like you need a refill on that drink.”

  He grunted distrustfully and I started dealing. I knew the man well. He was one of the regulars at any table, Mr. Here For The Money. His real name varied but he was always the same person—rude, surly and generous with the F-bombs. Inevitably he always lost and it was always the ‘effing casino’s fault,’ which meant ‘no tip for the stupid dealer.’

  At least none of my other regulars were there: Mr. Body Odor, Mr. Perving On Every Woman Around, and Mr. Cigar Man.

  I focused on the cards and pretty soon Mr. Here For The Money busted out, threw a hissy fit, and left the table to do God knows what. His place was quickly taken by three frat boys, who all thought they were giving Don Juan a run for his money: “Whatchya doing after work?”, “You wanna show us around Vegas?” (wink wink) and of course, “Met a stripper named Tiffany yesterday, that wasn’t you in a wig, was it?”

  I tell myself every day that I don’t hate my job. It doesn’t pay as much as stripping or being a cocktail waitress, but I get to wear more clothes, don’t get perved on as much, and never get groped. But there’s a reason I’m trying to leave the madness of the casino pit to become a private investigator, and it was a relief when I got a tap on my shoulder, indicating that it was time for my break.

  I headed into the break room and checked my voicemail. There was a strange message from my grandmother, and I told myself I’d call her back tomorrow. I was expecting Sophia to have left me a message reminding me to think about things, but she was clearly giving me some space.